


Like a Wave

by NYCScribbler



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Misses Clause Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 18:00:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NYCScribbler/pseuds/NYCScribbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment in time, like a slice carved off a block of cheese.*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Wave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pendrecarc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendrecarc/gifts).



> Title is thanks to Rosanne Cash. Characters are thanks to Sir Terry. Lawsuits would be counter-productive and against the spirit of Yuletide.
> 
> Dear recipient, I hope you enjoy. I've read all four Tiffany Aching books, but my knowledge is a bit rusty, so forgive me any errors I may not have caught.

Like a Wave

Take a moment in time, a small piece of a greater whole, like a slice carved off a block of cheese[*](http://archiveofourown.org/works/298507#f1) and hold it at arm's length[**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/298507#21).

It can't be said that it was quiet on the Chalk, not without angering those who pride themselves on precision of language. Places that pride themselves on sheep are never short of sound. Let it be said, instead, that it was _relatively_ quiet on the Chalk, with no unusual noises intruding. The sheep baa'd, bleated, blatted, and made the other noises associated with the daily lives of sheep[ ***](http://archiveofourown.org/works/298507#f3). Birds chirped and twittered in the skies above, darting through the fluffy white clouds.

The wind rustled through the grass, setting off a slow ripple across the landscape. A stranger, freshly arrived on the Chalk, might compare it to waves on the ocean, crashing against a far distant shore. The same wind teased out strands of brown hair from under Tiffany Aching's hat, much to her annoyance. It wasn't so much that she cared about her appearance as that she had put her hair out of the way for a _reason_ , and it didn't seem quite right that something could undo that without so much as a by-your-leave. She shoved them back in place and hurried through the grass to keep up with her grandmother.

The long grass tickled her legs under her skirts as she walked, and she spared a moment to wonder just how it managed to find her legs between her skirts and her boots. Her mother had said she would grow into everything; if that was the case, Tiffany thought, her mother was expecting her to do rather a lot of growing in the next few years.

She was six years old, and as much as she tried to see through them, the world still offered her wonders. The trick was to look past things and see what made them work, and sometimes that was better than the trick was supposed to be. Granny Aching had shown her how to listen to silence- no, not so much to the silence as _through_ it, like being under a comfortable blanket and lifting up a corner of it, and that was best of all. She listened to the quiet and let it fill her with the Chalk, with Granny Aching's Chalk.

Sometimes she got a little jealous that everyone called her Granny Granny. It didn't seem fair that she had to share Granny Aching with her sisters, her cousins _and_ everyone else on the Chalk. But if they didn't- if her Granny wasn't the kind of person that people wanted to call Granny, or felt it appropriate to call Granny- then maybe her Granny would be a different person. She wasn't sure about that yet. It was something she'd been thinking about every so often, and every time she felt she was on the edge of knowing it, she backed away. She wasn't sure why, but she thought it might have to do with something Granny Aching had said once. “Edges are choices. You can go forward or go back, but you have to choose.”

She was choosing to go forward, faster, not-quite-running through the grass in a wave of motion to catch up to Granny Aching, who wasn't going to let a little girl slow her down when she was checking on the sheep during lambing. Little girls and sheep were both very important to her, but as far as she was concerned, little girls had a better chance of fending for themselves than sheep did. Tiffany knew _she_ was smarter than a sheep, but she wasn't sure about some of the other girls she'd met. She'd said that once to Granny Aching, and gotten back, “Then someone'll tend them too.”

That would be quite a job, Tiffany had thought, and still thought. She hadn't said that out loud, though. Something in her suggested that it wouldn't be a good idea to do that. She figured it was because words were important, and saying too many of them made you think you were more important than you were. Granny Aching didn't say a lot of words, but she made them count.

“Yan, tan, tethera...” Granny Aching's voice floated out over the scene, and Tiffany hurried up to get there before the end. With a giggle and a grin, she slipped in among the sheep and positioned herself, counting along in her head until she heard “...tetherabum, metherabum...”, and that was her cue to pop her head up. “Ah, that's my little jiggit!” Granny Aching said, hooking her out with the crook and setting her down on the grass so quickly that the next sheep didn't have time to confuse the count. “Count up, my jiggit,” she said, gesturing at the rest of the herd.

“Yan, tan, tethera, methera...” Tiffany dutifully recited, watching and counting as Granny Aching separated out the herd. She was starting to shiver a bit; spring was all well and good, but the wind was blowing more sharply now, and winter hadn't entirely left the Chalk yet. Her fingers were shaking as she extended them.

Granny Aching saw her shivering and pulled her in close. Tiffany felt warmer as soon as she was tucked up against her, the cold easing away in waves. It was a nice feeling, and something she never had to share with anyone; no one else wanted to work the long days on the Chalk with Granny Aching, because she never stopped unless the sheep stopped. Most people were too worried about their herds and farms, or intimidated by Granny Aching. Tiffany didn't understand that at _all_.

They worked for hours, until the sun was nearly down and Tiffany's eyes were almost closed. “Best get something warm in ye before ye go back to the farm,” Granny Aching said, and Tiffany agreed that was a very good idea. They headed back towards the hut on its high wheels, and as soon as the door was closed, Tiffany felt the familiar sensation of both being very far away from everything and right in the heart of the Chalk. The scent of Jolly Sailor and turpentine was stronger here, and she knew that on days when she hadn't been in among the sheep as much, she would smell the wool (and other sheep products, but it wasn't polite to mention, and anyway most places smelled like other products when you got right down to it).

There was a wool blanket, and a cup of hot tea, and a little rug, but the best part was that this was Granny Aching's place in the world, even more than the rest of the Chalk. She made it, she shaped it, and it felt like her. That feeling of safety was more comfortable than the blanket and the tea, and she was half-asleep when Granny Aching shook her and said, “Off home with ye now, else they'll worry.”

Tiffany shook herself awake and put her cloak back on. Night had completely fallen by now, but that didn't matter. No one was going to bother Granny Aching's girl, and she didn't need more light than the moon and the stars could provide to get back. She knew her way home by heart.

But she hesitated before opening the door anyway, the darkness making her pause. She looked back over her shoulder and said, “Granny? Will you be here for always?”

“Nothing's for always. But what's of the Chalk never truly leaves it,” Granny Aching replied.

 

 _What's of the Chalk never truly leaves it,_ Tiffany thinks years later, after all her grand adventures are done, the memory remaining in her bones like the bones and the flint and the wheels of Granny Aching's cart remain in the Chalk. What she's seen and done and felt and been, they all trace back to the long grass tickling her legs under her skirts, to her boots pounding on the turf, to the cadence of “yan, tan, tethera...”, to the feel of the wool in her hands as she held the sheep, to the blue of the sky and the green of the land, to the scent of Jolly Sailor and turpentine, to the bitter burn of the Special Sheep Liniment, to being Granny Aching's little jiggit and Joe Aching's youngest girl.

The memory rolls over her like a wave, time and time again, and every time it carries her away.

 

* * *

*though perhaps with a slightly less pungent aroma, and not so regularly shaped, and upland cheeses don't slice so much as they squish, so not very much like a slice of cheese

**much like a slice of cheese in this regard

***which mostly consist of sleeping, eating, and sheep[****](f3)

****but not eating sheep, unlike the stories people tell about Fourecks


End file.
